This is a song about "Foreign whips"

Cause i’ve been counting all this dirty paper for a minute

That grow into foreign friends and eventually strange fruit,

I style on new york, pile up my fork

Damn... my levels foreign wheres ya passport

Yo, turn me up some

All my bitches be foreign

Cause we been off them slave ships

And grip whips to switch hits to each ribs

And try to deplete foreign populations creating complications.

I'll rebel against your jealous hating, blessed with the essence to excel with patience

My father's dead, well i don't know, we'll never fucking meet

Without the whips and chains it's still displayed the ways that they would bleed

Like 40 scores of foreign wars i bring the bombs

Slangin' rocks with your glocks put this tape in your box